Datra stared at the ceiling, stewing in his overwarm bed as the waterclock filled and constellations arched past the open window. D’neb and Altair had long left him, and little Bega was half past the frame. On the other side, Sappheiros’s harp blinked dim and red, the musician creeping just behind. Datra wondered if he could last until morning, but he could see that was a long ways off.

On one hand, Datra felt better than he had in months, maybe years. The usual tension in his neck and shoulders had melted away, his chest swelled with each breath, and even the pain in his ankle stung less than it should. On the other, when Datra turned his head, he saw another on the pillow besides him, scant moonbeams falling on her tangled shoc­k of hair. He tried to stir, but a demon sat on his chest, growing heavier each time he glanced at his companion. This might have went on all night—he wished it could—­but Datra’s bladder joined the battle, it’s victory quick and decisive. If he was to confront this at all, it best happen now, so Datra squirmed back and rolled his shoulders up on the headboard, getting a full view of his bedmate, whoever she was.

One possibility was tossed quickly. The woman was too short, too narrow of hip, and too calm a sleeper—laid on her side as well. The other options, the real ones, were harder to tell apart. Datra leaned in and squinted, making out reddish hair and the razor jaw which every Pentacost had from the old man on down. Datra looked for a mole, a wrinkle, any sign of age, but there just wasn’t enough light. Datra sighed and pulled a match from the nightstand, then he braced himself and twisted it alight.

The room flickered, orange and soft and warm. Light spilled over the woman showing pale round shoulders and deep auburn hair without a speck of gray. She stirred and yawned and rolled towards Datra, smiling up with a familiar face. For a moment, Datra was a rankless again, a guest, half expecting Old Menander to slam his fist on the door and accuse him of swapping his grappa with water. Then the young woman laid a hand on the crest of Datra’s stomach, and the scene came crashing down.

“Hey,” said Sena.

“You need to leave.”

She looked back for a long moment, face shifting from flirty to confused to a tense, awkward grin. “Why should I?”

“Your mother is on the other side of that door.”

“Oh, do we need a chaperone? Should I invite her in to watch our second round?”

Sena sat upright and held an open hand to the side of her mouth, as though she were about to yell across a field. Datra grabbed her shoulder. “Please,” he said. “Please keep this between us. Just for a few days. Please.” Sena pulled back and sneered, but Datra tightened his grip. “Just until my business is done, then you can have all the time you want. I’ll stay ‘til you’re sick of me, but I came with responsibilities and can’t risk disrespecting your mother.”

“What disrespect? It’s my time, my life, my body.”

“Yes, but her house; and there’s a way to do things. I should have stated my intentions, brought gifts and courted…”

“Courted?! Menora said you were from the Archives. Did she mean as an exhibit?”

“Well, you seemed happy to get some dust in your pages.”

The words had hardly left his mouth before Datra regretted them. Sena hissed and ripped aside the blankets, kicking her legs out of bed. Datra lunged and flung his arms around her, face pressed to her hip. “Sorry. Lord, I’m so sorry. I’m just nervous, you see? It’s been years, and you are so young and strong and beautiful. I struck you to strike myself, since I know how ridiculous I look besides you. Please show mercy on an old man, and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Sena slid a hand down her waist and pried him away, then she walked across the room and yanked open the door. For a moment, her bare silhouette stood in the frame, backlit by low candles in the hallway. She turned back to glare, smiling to the edge of her mouth. “Oh, you will,” she said, then she slammed the door behind her. Datra jumped at the noise, holding his breath as he listened for stirring in the Master’s chamber, then he searched his room, confused. Where was Sena’s clothing? Had she walked here like that? He strained to remember but couldn’t, frantic and not quite sober.

Datra rolled to his feet and looked at the tangled bedding, eyes lingering on the dent where Sena’s ass had been a minute before—total contamination; one wrong move and Datra would be in Medical, spreading his cheeks for Barlow as Anya had free run of the clade. He needed Menora’s help, but what to tell her? Datra groaned and rubbed his face, then caught himself and jerked his hands from his mouth, holding them out like hot irons while he searched for his quinebottle; then he remembered how close his face had been to her glutes. He stared at the mess and thought of excuses: he’d shat the bed, been robbed, taken liberties with a maid. None seemed to work, and Datra was ready to call for Menora—come what may—when he remembered the pool and her promise to mix in some quine. If he soaked in it often and tossed out his sheets, Datra might ward off infestation just long enough to finish this nonsense and get back home.

He crept onto the balcony, a slim span of brick which hugged the penthouse, just wide enough to offer some privacy from the people below, provided one stayed back from the guardrails. At the far end, he saw the pool, a squat little dish of blue and white tiles, set into the floor with headrests just above his ankles. Thick tendrils of steam curled up from the milky surface, and empty quinebottles lay strewn in the corner by the door to Menora’s chambers, her windows still and black.

Datra sighed with relief and reached back through his bedroom window, taking the spyglass and half-bottle of grappa. He needed a good, long soak, and since reading was out of the question, he had to entertain himself somehow. Datra looked ‘round to ensure he was in darkness, a shadow among the spires, then he leaned on the iron bars and felt the breeze as he tested the spyglass, pulling one brass tube from the other and holding the bead to his eye.

The market was fading, but not quite asleep, with storefronts sitting dark beneath flats which teemed with lamps and candelabra; save for the restaurants, which had it reversed. These blocks of light and dark curled along the square like a torturer’s smile, backed by a flickering orange sea which swept out along the hills which ran down clade center, ten thousand flames marking the little people of Menora’s domain.

Datra saw two greybeards sitting on a rooftop patio, hunched over a game of ch’tura. A young woman came up with wine and horns, and as she poured out drinks one of the players slid a pawn one square over. The cheater embraced the girl in thanks and she undid the move behind his back.

Datra saw a young man in a garret, pacing in his subungula by the light of a desktop candle. The youth stomped and spun and talked to unseen persons, then leaned on his balcony to watch the street below. He stood still a moment, then pushed off and clapped and rushed back to the desk, scribbling something on a slip of paper.

Datra saw a young couple dining in a kitchen, both clad in the drab robes of a professional—local bureaucrats, probably. The woman called out, and a serving girl came in with a wool greatcoat. She helped the man slip it on, then stooped to lace his sandals. She stood at the door with clasped hands, sleeves to the forearm, as her master saw off the guest with a chaste peck on the cheek; then the woman waved the girl over and pulled her onto her lap, groping into her robes as she pressed their lips together. For a moment, Datra wondered if he had stumbled onto an assault, but a few kisses more and it looked mutual enough.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

“Having fun, Dat?”

Datra jumped and nearly dropped the spyglass, then he spun and saw Menora sitting in her window, hair unbound, clad in a light tunic.

“No, no. Just doing the rounds.”

“I’m sure. Trouble sleeping?”

“I slept once. I’ll take a second soon enough.”

“Same. I was going to soak a while. Care to join me?”

“I’d love to.” Datra took a step towards the basin, but Menora stopped him with a click of her tongue. “Datra,” she said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He froze, heart pounding, then Datra let out a breath. “Of course, sorry,” he said. “Be right back.” Menora dropped down and unlaced her tunic while Datra slipped back to his room and into the water closet. He washed as fast as he could manage and scurried back to the pool. Menora was already in the water, ash red hair fastened into a bun. “Thanks for the reminder,” Datra said, testing the water with his toe.

“No trouble,” she said. “What you do with my daughter is her business, but I won’t have you track the results into my pool.” Datra froze with one foot in the water, but she slapped his calf and said “don’t act shy now that it’s over. Get in, Datra.”

He dropped in and settled across from Menora, struggling to keep his feet from touching hers in the cramped basin. After a long silence, he said “sorry.”

“For what?”

“Well, uh…”

“Sena can make her own decisions. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what? I see two adults spending their time how they please. Or am I mistaken, and you see it some other way?”

Datra paused to choose his words. “Yes, but I’m here as an official…”

“Official, are you? I forget myself!” Menora bowed her head in mock piety, hands clasped under the water. “S’nocte, Patre. I am Menora Magda Pentacost, Alderman of Clade G. Will you dry my tears?”

“I’ll do as I can,” Datra sighed.

“So, Chief Datra, what business did you bring on the state’s behalf? I apologize for my inferior etiquette, and being so improperly dressed.”

Datra grimaced, matching her tone. “Alderman Owen wants to negotiate a land purchase, or swap, between clades G and Q. Since your border is so messy, inefficient, and hard to maintain, the Bureau of Irrigation is officially supporting a deal and offering to mediate.”

“Absolutely not.”

Datra reached for his grappa. “Well, I tried,” he said with a shrug.

“Datra why are you here?”

“I just told you.”

“So now you lie to my face? You didn’t come here to humor Owen. What are you up to?”

“My job! Or maybe I just wanted to see you, did you consider that?”

“No. I see you twice a year, if that, and you’re a stranger to me. You don’t even show up in the Royal Baths anymore, you send that shrimp.”

“Those meetings were always a waste of time. Anything the Aldermen have a say in ends up on Tremaine’s desk anyway. Let him attend.”

“You should at least send Birch or that big guy. Me and Beatrice have a lot of fun with that boy, but making him stand next to the Patriarch is just cruel.”

“I don’t really care. I’m the head builder on paper, but does anyone think I’m running around with a plumb bob?”

“Poor Tremaine only has the string.”

Something flickered in the corner of Datra’s vision. He turned and saw a light in his room. “What’s that?” he asked.

“My staff is cleaning your room, again. You needed that, right?”

“I did. Thanks,” Datra said, though seeing himself cut off from his water closet reminded him of something. He stood and walked with wet feet to the edge of the balcony. “What’s beneath this?” he asked.

“My roses, why?”

Datra stood flush to the rail and held his member between the bars. He relaxed and urinated. The stream split three or four ways, and he shifted to block Menora’s view.

“Lovely,” she said.

“It was either this or go in the pool.”

“I’ll mount that thing over the fireplace.”

“You’d never have known.”

“It’s like having a new son already.”

Datra shook off and went back to the pool. “Come on, I’m sure Sena was just…” Datra slowed, seeing something in Menora’s eyes which looked too much like murder, “you think we’d make a proper couple?”

“Life is made of small choices, and Sena’s had a hard time finding her equal.”

“Ha, is that me?”

“I could make a case. You have rank, and I assume a bit of money.”

“There’s a reason Irrigation went to a provincial. It hardly competes with running a clade, or is the idea that I’d retire by the time Sena inherits?”

“Maybe she’d be happier with you?”

“This house is so full of jokes! Besides, you can’t spare your eldest, not with young Danica fresh out of her chiton.”

“Danica’s already showing up Sena in the offices, and she has plenty of room to grow.”

Datra held a finger to his lips. “Better hide her away, then. I only caught Danica in passing, but she cut a striking figure: trim chest, big eyes, long dark hair. I can think of a certain someone who’s quite partial to girls of that sort, can’t you? If you’re telling me she’s smart as well, we may only be a few exams away from Jenya naming your successor.”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

“Do you have another kid I don’t know about?” Datra asked, waiting for a response. Menora just stared, so he waited longer, still nothing. Datra took a big swig of grappa. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

“What’s so strange about it? Meander’s capable, popular, and—unless Geoff has some hidden deviancy—unlikely to get drafted.”

“That’s one thing our good City Father would never lie about. Regardless, Sudras aren’t eligible.”

“Is there a law saying so?”

“Give me time and I’ll find one; and if not, laws can be written.” Datra took another long, warm sip. “I hope you’re not expecting me to help with this.”

“I expect nothing, if you can manage it.”

“You think the other Aldermen will accept him?”

“They’d vary, as all people do. I think Beatrice would support us. Owen would act sweet in public then curse me behind my back. Jasper would do the opposite. I’m less sure of the others, but none of that matters because it’s my clade and their authority can’t cross running water.”

“Is Menander even on the Social Register? If pressed, can you name his father?”

“Watch yourself, Datra.”

“I don’t know; why should you?’

Datra shrank back, worried he’d gone too far. He stared off at the stars for a while, and so did Menora, her eyes landing somewhere around the Autumn Quadrangle—Datra wondered if she knew that. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “You have no obligation to tell me, but whatever happened to that one guy who used to be here all the time. Nathan something?”

“Nathaniel…”

“Him!”

“Pentacost. His name was Nathaniel Pentacost.”

“Where did he go?”

“I feel like you already know.”

“Oh, to hell with rumors and auxiliaries and scraps of paper. I want your side of the story. I never asked before, but you’ve just went through my indiscretions and told me this business with Menander—which will become my problem eventually. So, if it’s not asking too much, I’d like to know.”

Menora looked back and took a long, deep breath, visible in the midnight air. “There’s not much to tell. We’d been together since childhood, and each step had went so smoothly from the last neither of us questioned it when our parents suggested a betrothal. I don’t even remember him proposing, I just found myself in the magistrate’s office with Nathaniel, signing a marriage contract. He handed me the pen, grinning like a fool, and make a joke about how it was a shame to waste ink writing the same name twice. I laughed with him. It seemed such a funny coincidence…”

“Was it?”

“No. I started thinking about all the little things our parents has done to push us together over the years and wondered who we might have married if not each other. I couldn’t come up with a single person. All the men I knew were married or old or commoners or… well, I couldn’t think of a single one, and it was nearly as bad for Nathaniel. It looked like a choice between pairing up or leaving the clade. Later, I laid out our pedigrees and went back past year zero, to before Richter and the plague. The lines were so alive, with dozens of families spilling into each other; the old, colored houses, but also Bastards, ennobled merchants, envoys from the provinces—you needed a history of the Empire to understand what you were looking at. Then, all of sudden, it’s nothing but Petrovs and Korres and a few odd families getting swallowed up by Pentacost.”

“Sounds typically noble to me.”

“Yes, but something was different. I asked around and got copies of the other Aldermen’s pedigrees. It was the same all around, but getting worse. I went back and counted our great-grandparents. Jasper had seven; Owen and Beatrice, six. I had five, same as Nathaniel.”

“Not the same five, I hope?”

“The pedigrees were all shrinking down to nothing, and mine was the thinnest. It looked like a bodkin pointed right at my crotch. I decided it couldn’t last, and if someone had to break with tradition, I would rather it be me than my children.”

“So you broke off the engagement?”

“No. I stalled and pandered and tried to come up with a solution, but I got pregnant with Sena, and Nathaniel panicked over making sure she was legitimate. I told him I wanted to marry, but had some conditions. He said no and left the clade.”

Datra hmm’d and bobbed his head. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, and he looked over to see the lights out in his bedroom. Menora stood and reached for a towel. In the dim moonlight, he noticed the thin stretchmarks along her stomach and breasts. “It seems your room is clean again, Dat. Please lock the door this time.”

“I will.”

“There will be breakfast around sun-up. If you’re awake and around, feel free to join us. S’nocte.”

“S’nocte.”